Judging Distance
by sydedalus
Summary: A look at distance, when it’s needed and when it’s not, in the early days of an established relationship between House and Wilson. This is a different sort of hc fic, though it does mine familiar territory. Complete. See The Inside for a follow up.
1. The Distance Equation

**Title:** Judging Distance  
**Pairing:** House/Wilson established relationship  
**Rating:** T for sexual suggestion  
**Warnings:** medical realism; gratuitous House torture; male/male intimacy  
**Summary:** A look at distance, when it's needed and when it's not, in the early days of an already established relationship between House and Wilson. House gets sick and Wilson must learn to judge distance.  
**Disclaimer:** Not mine, no claim to ownership, etc.  
**Note:** This story is of the same AU as "Knowing and Doing," but takes place prior to that fic.

* * *

**The Distance Equation**

Work had always contoured their relationship. Long before they went beyond friendship to a new level of intimacy, work exerted pressure on every aspect of their lives.

More than case consults, clinic consults, taking up each other's office space, sharing food, listening (Wilson), talking (House), and occasionally going to bat against Cuddy, work determined mood. House careened wildly between manic and depressive; Wilson remained steady, sometimes moving up, sometimes down, but always smoothly and steadily. House worked for thirty-six, forty-eight, sometimes seventy-two hours without any real rest, followed by a day off or a half-day; Wilson arrived at nine and left at five, unless someone (like House) needed him to come early or stay late. So while it came as no surprise to either of them that House kept odd hours once they started living together, Wilson wished he'd call more often.

Seven a.m. on a Sunday, the first full day Wilson had entirely to himself, barring a page or a call, and lying on his stomach breathing in fabric softener—suddenly he missed the smell of their combined sweat and semen, and regretted washing the sheets, though they had been filthy—he realized he was bored. He missed House.

For three days House had been working on the case of a young boy. Wilson hadn't seen him since mid-afternoon yesterday when they'd officially, definitively ruled out cancer and House had skipped on to the next theory without so much as a dismissive hand wave. Accustomed to House's behavior, Wilson hadn't taken it personally, but he had roamed aimlessly around the apartment until every surface, dish, and article of clothing was clean.

He dug his nose into the clean pillow. Seven a.m. He couldn't even sleep late.

There was no way around it. He missed House.

He realized his inner life needed work about five minutes before he heard the door opening; he hadn't gotten out of bed yet to work on his inner life.

Coming down the hall, House's limp spoke of the sheer exhaustion which almost always accompanied the crash from the adrenaline high of a case. Wilson sighed into the pillow, his hot breath spreading chin to nose. House wouldn't be up for anything this morning…and judging from the heavy, slow gait, maybe not this afternoon either.

Face down in the pillow, Wilson heard House enter the room. Even the cadence of his breathing spoke of bone weariness. Wilson turned his head and watched House unbutton the wrinkled blue shirt he'd worn since Friday morning, let it fall to the floor, and lift one of the many slim-fitting graphic t-shirts he owned over his head.

Shoulders slumped forward, House retrieved an undershirt and thin pajama pants from his dresser drawer.

"You're still in bed?" he asked as he pulled the undershirt over his head.

Wilson watched. He enjoyed watching, especially when the show wasn't for him.

Pajama pants slung over his shoulder, House pushed his jeans to his knees so he could shake them off.

"Physically," Wilson answered. "Spiritually, I'm in a galaxy far, far away."

Not so much as an appreciative sniff for his Star Wars reference, Wilson noted with dismay as he parsed out the variables that comprised House's mood. He took a deep breath, held it, and released it slowly. Not only had House come home exhausted, he hadn't mentioned the case yet. Wilson knew from House's silence that his patient hadn't made it. And House's reticence indicated that he might not have figured it out, either…though Wilson assumed he'd stay until the autopsy was conducted if he could. That meant he couldn't. Wilson gathered this information before House had a foot through his pajamas.

So House had finally come home, but there was nothing to say until House broached the topic. Wilson rolled onto his side. Sex was out; talking was out; House was clearly intent on going to bed; maybe he'd allow a little physical contact. Just a little something….

"Gonna get up?" House asked, yanking his pants over his hips.

"Might," Wilson returned lazily.

House used both hands to lift his leg to the bed. Wilson couldn't help but notice; he had too many years of noticing behind him. He said nothing as House curled up on his right side, his back to Wilson.

Tentatively, Wilson placed a hand on his shoulder and let it gently slide down his back. House shifted uncomfortably, pulling the comforter up to cover his exposed upper arm.

"Too tired," Wilson heard him mumble.

Wilson moved his hand back to House's shoulder. "I can't be next to you?" he asked lightly.

"Really tired," House sighed.

Wilson, seeing no conflict between being tired and snuggling, slid toward House.

House shrank at Wilson's touch. Wilson frowned, hurt by the unexplained behavior. House didn't always like to snuggle, but in the past few months they'd been together, he'd never actively rebuffed Wilson's desire for intimacy because he was _tired_. In pain, yes. But never because he was just tired.

"Would you go get that red bowl of mine you hate?" House asked.

Wilson's confused expression met House's blank back.

Sensing it, House clarified. "The one with the topless seniorita at the bottom. You thought it was tacky and wanted to throw it away."

"Why?"

House's body tightened suddenly. "Because I'm not done hurling the bacteria from the undercooked burger I ate yesterday and I want to be ready if it surprises me."

_Oh_, Wilson realized. House was sick; he wanted to be left alone. Oh.

So much for his day off.

"Sure," Wilson replied, scooting out of bed.

He returned with the bowl—which really was hideous; he didn't know where House had gotten it and wished House would let him throw it away—and a glass of water. Placing them on the table next to House, he paused to study House. Curled into a malformed ball, House wasn't asleep and clearly wasn't comfortable. Deep lines cut into his face. His stubble was approaching the stranded-on-a-desert-island look.

"You gonna let me ask or make me guess?"

Wilson saw him sigh mentally at the question. He knew House's stance on asking for help of any kind. Most of the past three months he'd spent judging how much distance was appropriate—a judgment he constantly reevaluated as situations changed. The equation was always the same: how much distance House wanted minus how much distance House needed over how much distance Wilson wanted minus how much distance he needed. The variables changed constantly and he had to know when to push House, himself, or both of them, but he hadn't spent so many years being House's friend without learning a few things about distance. All he had to do now was adjust for the new level of intimacy…which wasn't nearly as easy as it sounded.

Standing over him, Wilson waited. He had a new rule for physical illness: the more communication offered, the more distance allowed. He just wanted to know; then he would go away. He suspected House didn't like the rule very much.

House sighed mentally again. Wilson saw him realize he had to provide an answer.

"I ate a burger with a frosty center," House began, speaking rapidly like he did when running down a patient's symptoms for his lackeys. "Chills, nausea, cramps since midnight; puking since three; fever since…I don't know, let's say five—hard to keep track of your own misery when your patient's arresting; no diarrhea yet, the one thing I really need since I haven't crapped in about a week; my leg hurts like a son of a bitch and daddy told me he was diddling junior by slamming his fist into my gut five times."

He opened his eyes and blinked up at Wilson. "I know you feel lonely and neglected; trade ya my gut o' poison for a few days of psychic misery."

One eyebrow settled questioningly on the bridge of Wilson's nose. "The guy hit you before or after you started feeling sick?"

House's face twisted into the equivalent of a groan.

"It's food poisoning," House said. "Surprisingly, that ability to diagnose people thing works on me too."

Wilson stood silently, not having received his answer yet.

House's shoulders slumped in a bodily sigh at Wilson's stubbornness. "After the cramps and nausea, before the puking. All he did was make me sore in a different way. The one time I _don't_ take it in the jaw…"

Wilson's thumb and forefinger migrated to his chin while he studied House and the list.

"Fever?" he asked incredulously.

"Just enough to make everything extra annoying," House answered, his voice rising through the sentence to indicate his annoyance.

Had he been a porcupine—an animal Wilson often imagined him as—each quill would be stiffly bared.

"I don't have to point out the massive quantities of acetaminophen you consume each day, do I?" Wilson said, arms crossed, vacillating between his worried stance and his I-told-you-so stance. With so much acetaminophen in his system, House would have to be running a high fever for it to show.

Annoyed blue eyes accosted him. "I don't have to point out, 1. puking, 2. that my immune system is wicked awesome."

"Nothing about this feels strange to you?" Wilson asked.

House made a dissatisfied noise Wilson hadn't learned to classify yet.

"This feels like _Salmonella_ with its normal escape route blocked by large amounts of hydrocodone which I'm not going to stop taking because I'd rather puke for days than get the runs, keep puking, and be in agony."

Wilson stood still. "I don't have to point out the flaw in your plan."

"No, you don't," House answered. He grimaced and curled tighter around his mid-section. "Are we done?"

Reluctantly, Wilson relaxed his stance. "For now," he said. "But if you're not crapping by noon, we'll talk again."

"Fair enough," House conceded.

When Wilson didn't immediately leave, House added, "I know my suffering gets your catharsis rocks off, but not today."

Wilson shifted his weight, bothered by the anomalies House had so easily explained away. Food poisoning without diarrhea wasn't food poisoning. The presentation was all wrong. But House thought he was right and Wilson knew how far arguing got him when House thought he was right.

He stood just a few seconds longer—enough time to register his complaint. Then he retreated.

"I'll be in the living room."

House tensed, curling tighter. "Great."


	2. Evacuation

Disclaimer, etc., in chapter 1.

Thanks for the reviews! To address questions from them, yes, House's patient did give up the ghost and he didn't manage to diagnose the patient which is why he's upset, and no, House doesn't have _E. Coli_, he has _Salmonella_. I'm pleased everyone found the first chapter so in-character. I hope I can keep it that way.

Finally, I apologize for the title of this chapter. I have a very rude sense of humor.

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**Evacuation**

At one point in his life, Wilson had had hobbies. In fact, he'd had an over-abundance of hobbies.

Bass fishing. Something he'd done in his teens with a friend and kept up later in life. He'd placed in tournaments twice. But as his obligations at work and home grew, his time on the lake dwindled. He'd sold the boat after the divorce from Bonnie.

Golf. He started in college. All the pre-med students did it: group MCAT study in the morning, eighteen holes in the afternoon, keggers at night. He'd been good enough to qualify for a pro-am tournament once. He still played occasionally with visiting physicians and donors who preferred a game to a meal, but he hadn't played for fun in years. His clubs were in storage following the divorce from Julie. No room in House's one-bedroom apartment.

Live theatre. A life-long love dating back to high school. Not all of his wives had loved it like he did, but they'd generally accompany him. House refused. Said he couldn't change the channel when he got bored. Going to the theatre alone wasn't very enjoyable. He hadn't even picked up the local playhouses' schedules and the season was already underway.

Hitchcock and film noir. This one he'd always shared more with House than anyone else (not counting a good friend from med school with whom he'd lost touch years ago). But House preferred explosions and topless women to quality cinema, and House bitched when he didn't get to pick the movie. Wilson's DVDs were gathering dust somewhere in the living room.

Cooking. This had started as a method of courting when he was in med school: they'd meet twice a week for cooking class and try out their homework on each other. He was married to her before he could make a soufflé rise. By the time they had separated, he made enough money to own nice high-end equipment, most of which he got to keep. He gained twenty pounds eating his own cooking before the divorce was finalized. Now cooking was the buffer between work and home. The selection of ingredients, the artistic touches he could add, and the concentration necessary to create something delicious—all afforded him time to let the worries of work wash out of his consciousness. Cooking was a pleasure, but also a psychological necessity. Looking back, he realized he'd become so depressed living in a hotel room after the divorce with Julie in part because he hadn't had a kitchen in which to sort himself out every evening. He had free reign in the kitchen now—which was probably one reason they'd made it this long in a one-bedroom apartment. His decision to keep taking anti-depressants was another.

And then there was House. At one time, House had been a hobby…insofar as friends are hobbies. That is, at one time, House hadn't consumed him so much that a day without a mention of House or a visit with House felt incomplete. House hadn't been a hobby in years.

The only real hobby he had left—and it, like cooking, was more a necessary biological function than a hobby—he was practicing right now. But with all this distracted thought about hobbies, he wasn't doing a particularly good job of practicing this one. He was bothered by the realization he'd had earlier this morning that nothing was his and his alone any longer. He'd let himself be defined solely by work and his relationship with House. Without those two things, he was blank. He was becoming House: no relationships outside of work. But even House had his music and his video games.

Wilson's mind ran idly over a list of colleagues. Who did he get along with? Everyone. Okay. Who liked golf? A few people came to mind.

He sighed to himself: he was no longer sure how to approach those people. He really was becoming House. And he and House together, the open secret of their relationship, only complicated matters. He still felt straight. He and House never went out together as a couple, unless it was to eat; he had no idea where the gay scene began or ended in town. He didn't check out other men any more now than he had ten or twenty years ago. But he knew this relationship had changed some people's perspective of him entirely, even if he had to remind himself of that fact because he didn't feel different. Now, he considered, an innocent invitation to play golf might be read as more than what it was by some people. He knew he shouldn't let that knowledge stop him from asking, but he had to admit that it did slow him down.

He sniffed: he _really was_ becoming House.

And he really wasn't concentrating on his last remaining hobby. Instead of enjoying the action on screen, he noticed the leather couch cushions sticking uncomfortably to his back and butt, the vague hunger stirring his stomach, the extremely poor quality of the hotel room the director had chosen for the shoot. Even the fact that he'd been saving up for House to come home and was suffering from a serious case of blue-balls as a result wasn't helping him keep his mind where it should be.

He'd had plans for today. Elaborate plans. He'd actually gone shopping for today.

He sighed again. Maybe he was just too disappointed to concentrate.

Of course, the current offering on the Spice channel was very tame—did cable porn observe Sunday mornings? he wondered—so he resolved to try again with one of the many DVDs from their combined collection. But first, other business.

He peeled himself off of the couch, stretched, and padded down the hall.

The bathroom door was closed and he heard water running in the bathtub as he approached. Out of some politeness his mother had instilled in him and his wives had reinforced, he knocked.

"Go away," House said from behind the door.

"Gotta pee," Wilson replied, slightly curious about why House would be taking a bath.

"Use the sink," House answered.

"Okay," Wilson said, wincing sympathetically at a mental image of House with his head in the toilet—the only reason he could think of for using the sink.

He waited for the door to open.

When it didn't, he knocked again.

"I'll use the sink," he said to the painted wood surface. "Let me in."

"Not this sink," House clarified.

Wilson's face twisted with disgust. "No."

House was silent.

Wilson knocked impatiently. "Come on. I'm not peeing in the kitchen."

He could almost hear House deliberating—something he didn't fully understand. He'd seen House sick before. He'd pee in the sink, which was gross but not something he'd never done before, and be gone. No big deal.

Before he could knock again, House answered sullenly: "Fine."

To Wilson's surprise, the door's lock clicked. He hadn't really thought House had locked the door; he was just being polite. Eyebrow raised, he turned the door knob.

Living with House, Wilson saw more than his fair share of strange sights, but opening the bathroom door, he took in something altogether new to him: House, naked, sitting on the tub ledge, a white hose attached to a red bag disappearing behind his back, and something between a scowl and a wince on his face.

Wilson tilted his head to the side for about a second, then proceeded to the toilet as if nothing out of the ordinary were happening.

House too spared Wilson a moment's questioning glance.

"I know why I'm naked," House said slowly, "but why are you naked?"

Wilson, who had been busy curling his lip at the streak of vomit on the porcelain's rim, turned his head back to House.

"I'll give you three guesses," he said, straining to get the last drops out.

"You were making God cry using only your left hand," House said immediately, grimacing as he spoke.

A little miffed that House always had to be such a good detective, Wilson rolled his eyes and half-shrugged, admitting defeat.

House made a small noise of discomfort. "Normally I'd find that very sexy," he said, "but something about a gut full of water just kills the mood."

Wilson grunted. With a hard stare at House, he wiped the vomit up with a piece of toilet paper and flushed. Then, moving a towel and a few magazines from the ottoman, he sat down as though he'd been invited to stay.

"So I guess we won't be talking later," he said, nodding to the enema bag House had hung from the shower head.

"Nope," House answered, not bothering to suppress another wince. "Thought I'd get things moving." He glanced furtively at Wilson and fingered his abdomen just above his leg. "Might have a small bowel obstruction."

Wilson's eyebrows shot up. He realized House's fingers were resting on the inguinal canal, the prime location in men for a hernia—one caused by, say, years of straining too hard because all that Vicodin made for piss-poor bowel motility.

"How long?" he asked, not yet angry but definitely feeling betrayed. He didn't ask for complete and total honesty all the time, but he did want to know if House had a chunk of intestine jutting out of his abdominal wall for which he'd need corrective surgery at some point. He thought House had understood that.

House glanced at him again, this time looking almost guilty.

"A few months," he answered in a tone as close to sheepish as he got.

Now Wilson allowed himself to feel anger. He felt his neck turning red.

House anticipated Wilson's reaction and rolled his eyes. "I could reduce it easily until right now," he said dismissively.

Before Wilson could respond, House grunted and hissed, moving his hand over the middle of his abdomen. With his other hand, he clamped the hose and tossed it aside, then eased himself into the nearly-full bathtub and turned the water off.

Wilson's skin prickled from the hot whoosh of steam; he shivered involuntarily. Realizing the situation House was in—sick, his gut flooded with water, very uncomfortable and about to be even more uncomfortable—some of the anger dissipated. House would get an earful from him, but not until he was better.

"Does it hurt?" he asked.

House, whose face had been clenched in a grimace, looked blankly at him for a moment. His mind traveled back across the desert of pain to retrieve the conversation topic.

"No," he replied. He squeezed his eyes shut again, pressing hands against his abdomen, and sucked in a breath. "It may still be reducible," he said tightly. "I just noticed it now and I didn't try very hard to reduce it. Whole area's kinda tender."

Wilson recognized the attempt to placate him. Normally, House would have stopped at 'no, it doesn't hurt.' The additional information came with a larger, unspoken statement: I've got it under control, leave me alone.

"Right," Wilson said, slapping hands on his bare thighs and standing up. "I'm gonna go buy bananas and applesauce. You like red Gatorade, right?"

"Yeah," House said from behind another wince. "Don't get it. Puking it up'll make me unlike it real fast." He hissed and hunched over. "Get the green kind," he instructed. "Stuff already makes me wanna barf."

Without his knowing it, Wilson's face had shaped itself into another sympathetic cringe.

"Sure," he said, and backed out of the bathroom as quickly as he could. House didn't want him there and he didn't want to be there. In fact, he wanted to be far away—for at least half an hour.

In the bedroom Wilson dressed quickly, wishing he'd taken a shower earlier, and practically ran toward the door. With a last glance down the hall, he shook his head at the rough time House was in for and locked the door behind him. The timing was horrible. But, he considered as he got into his car, it had made him realize how much he relied on House—that he relied too much on House.

Yes. On Monday, he'd schedule a tee time and invite a few colleagues, and to hell with their interpretation of the invite.

Pulling into traffic, he relaxed. He even smiled a little. Something good had come out of the day despite his plans collapsing—and it wasn't even mid-morning yet.

His mind drifted back to House and his smile faded. Poor House. Even if he had concealed the hernia. Mentally, Wilson added a stop at the video store to his list. He couldn't do anything else to help, not with food poisoning. A few DVDs and House's choice of Gatorade would have to be enough today.

What he didn't realize, except on some deep, unconscious level, was that he was trying to satisfy himself, not House, with tokens of movies and sports drink—House didn't need to be satisfied.


	3. Expansion

Disclaimer, etc., in chapter 1.

To answer a question from the reviews—_how do you know so much about Vicodin?_—the internet is a great tool. My favorite drug site is rxlist dot com. I've also been on the receiving end of opiates before; the list of potential side effects is more or less uniform—okay, less uniform, but they are generally very similar. A different answer is that I was a biology nerd in high school and I never quite grew out of it.

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**Expansion **

Laden with groceries, Wilson nudged the apartment door open with his foot. The scene that greeted him felt more like coming home than anything else in his experience: House sprawled on the couch with the television on. It was a simple pleasure that made his mind and body relax instantly.

He nudged the door closed with the other foot and craned his neck to see if House was asleep.

Eyes closed but definitely not asleep. Not even House could keep his face that taut in sleep.

Having nothing to say, Wilson said nothing. He took the bags to the kitchen and unpacked them, torn between the need to talk out this hernia business and the need to let House rest. Applesauce in the refrigerator on top of last night's paella leftovers. He rearranged the beer supply to accommodate the Gatorade. Bananas, a few days from being fully ripe, on the counter. White rice and bread they already had, though Wilson didn't imagine he'd be slicing bananas or toasting bread for at least a day.

He frowned at the half-green bananas. Why did it have to be Salmonella? Why couldn't it be something milder and shorter like _C. perfringens or _enterotoxic _E. coli_? He knew House had based his self-diagnosis on the undercooked burger, the time to onset and progression of symptoms, and statistics, and he knew House was probably right. The fever bothered him, though. House took so much acetaminophen… It didn't sit right with him.

He grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, twisted the cap with more force than necessary, and dropped into a chair next to the couch. Contemplatively drinking the water, he watched Sponge Bob and his cohorts do things that only made sense in cartoons, finally concluding that this didn't entertain him as much as an anvil falling on Wile E. Coyote's head.

House breathed unevenly to his left, clothed again in the undershirt and pajama pants he'd put on earlier. Wilson sniffed the air but detected nothing. Either House had suddenly become considerate or he was in real trouble.

Wilson sighed to himself, clutching the water bottle as if it might help him. Whatever House may think, he didn't always enjoy worrying about House's health. Sometimes he wanted to have a fun, carefree day too. He didn't think House understood that, but he knew his limitations when it came to making House understand anything. He also knew just how accepting he was of his lot as House's caretaker. He sighed again.

"Still have a fever?" he asked over his shoulder.

House stirred, bared his teeth in a wince, and licked his lips. "No idea."

Wilson paused, mentally scanning the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. He hadn't brought a thermometer with him and he'd never seen one in the cabinet. He glanced back over his shoulder to House.

"Do you own a thermometer?"

He knew the answer before the words had left his mouth, but maybe House would surprise him just this once…

House took a slow, deep breath, grunted, and hissed it out. "Nope."

_Of course_. Wilson turned his head back to the television. He swigged the water and swished it around in his mouth, slowly cogitating.

Eventually, he said, "I don't like this fever."

"Join the club," House grumbled.

"If it isn't gone by tomorrow night," Wilson continued, eyes still fixed on the television and speaking as if nothing were at stake, "I want to run a stool culture."

House lay quietly, almost as if he hadn't heard Wilson's comment. Then, suddenly, he took a deep breath and growled, "Can you not be so over-protective, just this once?" His eyes snapped open, flashing with anger. "I'm fine—it's just a little bad burger."

He was practically seething. Wilson's eyebrows knit together. Where had this anger come from?

"Look," House continued. He lifted his shirt and yanked his pants down with a thumb. "Even the hernia popped back into the place. I'll get it fixed later." Earnest, frustrated blue eyes begged for respite. "I just want to feel like crap in peace." He sank down into the cushions and draped an arm over his eyes.

Feeling much more calm than he knew he should—_thanks, antidepressants_—Wilson studied him as he lay panting from the outburst: haggard, pale, a little flushed. He reminded himself that House probably hadn't slept at all in the past two days, and that he'd lost his patient despite all his effort. He noticed House's left hand groping awkwardly at his thigh. No little orange bottle in sight.

"Your leg hurt?" he asked neutrally.

House breathed out harshly to indicate his frustration, but his voice was much softer when he answered. "Yes."

Wilson realized he was reacting to the calm tone; he sent another thanks to the powers of mood regulating SSRIs.

"Got your pills?" he asked. Even these obvious questions which House always hated—the simple, straight answer House had given...he wasn't entirely sure what was happening between them right now.

House stiffened and clutched his abdomen, still awkwardly rubbing his thigh with the wrong hand. He swallowed very deliberately.

"No."

Wilson was on his feet toward the bedroom and back in the chair before he thought to stand up. House flipped the cap off the bottle and sucked earnestly on a pill in a similarly thoughtless move.

"Bad timing," House said through a mouthful of partially-chewed pill. "I really need to puke."

Wilson sniffed. "I didn't make you take it now."

House conceded with a shrug of his shoulder.

Wilson stared blankly at the television for several minutes, running through all of his earlier thoughts again. Eventually, he realized he didn't just want to have his own identity away from House—he wanted to cultivate a broader identity _with_ House. Except for sex and a few awkward yet sincere moments involving the L word, nothing about their relationship had changed since the Tritter trial. They'd been able to sit next to each other and share silence without feeling self-conscious for years; that hadn't changed. Slowly, Wilson realized he wanted more than the occasional trek to a restaurant or a movie. He wanted a weekend trip every now and then. He wanted to share more than just work, home, and his body.

"Wanna go fishing some time?"

The words arrived without formulation but he liked them and he made no move to withdraw them.

But as sometimes happened, the timing was all wrong: as the words left Wilson's mouth, House sat up swallowing fiercely, one hand on his stomach, the other offering a single forefinger—'hold that thought'—and he disappeared with impressive speed.

For the millionth time, Wilson allowed himself a sigh and a moment of self-pity. Then he got up, poured a few ounces of Gatorade into a cup, left the cup next to the couch, and seated himself in front of his computer, which they'd wedged into a corner of the living room next to the kitchen, to check his email.

He'd written two replies, albeit short ones, before House emerged to settle gingerly back on the couch.

Wilson watched House's reflection in the computer monitor. He sniffed the Gatorade, sipped it, made a face, and put it down, then shook a Vicodin out and began chomping very loudly. Wilson got the message: the fever's showing because this stuff won't stay down.

He shifted his attention through the screen to an email. When he looked back, House had fixed his eyes on the exact inch of screen Wilson had been using as a mirror. Always that intense stare.

Wilson swiveled to face him.

"Okay," House said, his gaze lingering for a second to ensure that Wilson understood what he was okaying. Then he picked up the remote to rewind SpongeBob, cautiously sipping the Gatorade again.

House, who had never shown any interest in fishing, would go. Wilson turned back to the monitor and tried to hide the smile on his face in case House could see it glancing off the screen. House would go.


	4. Neither Out Far Nor In Deep

Disclaimer, etc., in chapter 1.

Hi. So this is the last chapter. It's been a quirky fic. This ending is not so much an ending as it is a stopping point at which I feel I've accomplished the goals I set. If it's disappointing, I apologize.

Also, I've borrowed the title from a poem by Frost. Its timbre informs my take on this chapter and the whole of this fic, but Frost can almost always be read at least two different ways, so the poem may or may not influence your reading. I'd be pleased if people read this fic two different ways.

* * *

**Neither Out Far Nor In Deep**

Wilson minimized the internet browser in favor of Princeton-Plainsboro's labs page when his email program announced a new message and the new message announced a fresh set of labs. For hours he'd been jumping back and forth between boat shopping and lab and patient review, stopping briefly to make a sandwich around noon and to refresh House's cup of Gatorade. House dozed between trips to the bathroom, occasionally waking enough to change the channel before he closed his eyes again and began to snore lightly. Neither of them had said anything in at least two hours.

Wilson added his notes to the patient's file and saved his changes to the system, then pulled up the boat page again. His head buzzed with things they could do. To have a boat, they'd have to have somewhere to keep a boat, and as much as House disliked any change to his routine, a move might be good. He had no idea how House would react and he wouldn't bring the subject up until House felt better—but that didn't keep him from opening a new page to begin searching real estate listings in the area.

A cough and an overly loud sigh distracted Wilson. Embarrassed, he minimized the real estate page before turning around.

House looked sick. Like he should be doing exactly what he'd done all day: lying on the couch, trying to sleep. Now he'd sat up to speak. The deep fissures around his eyes were intensified by the downward tilt of his head, as if raising it fully would take too much out of him.

Wilson raised a questioning eyebrow.

House coughed again and glanced at the floor quickly: a nervous tick that related his discomfort.

"I, ah, need you to get me an antiemetic." He coughed to clear his raspy throat, sweeping a hand across his face and pausing to pinch the bridge of his nose.

"Leg's killing me."

Wilson saw him lean forward and drop his hand carefully against his gut. His right hand pressed past the familiar absence and into the always-waiting angry crevasse.

"Gotta keep a few Vicodin down long enough for them to work." An extra press of his palm, as if mentioning the leg must coincide with firming his grasp on it.

Wilson studied him silently for a second before consenting. He stretched, rubbing away the ache which had settled in his back after hours of sitting in the chair, and sat forward with his hands on his thighs.

"How's the fluid loss?" he asked.

House had brought the topic up; by unwritten law, Wilson could ask a few questions with impunity.

House nodded to himself. "Antiemetic'll help with that, too."

Wilson felt for him though he kept his face neutral. He was glad to have this chance to help.

"Anything else I can do?"

House lifted a droll eyebrow. "Can't make time move forward or backward yet, can you?"

"Oh, so close," Wilson said, swinging an arm and snapping his fingers. "Another week and I'd have it down."

House favored him with a weak smile and lay back down. At some point during the morning, he'd brought a blanket into the living room which he now pulled up to his shoulder.

Wilson fetched his phone and dialed a nearby pharmacy. He roamed into the kitchen to let House sleep. When the first two pharmacies he tried didn't have any choice antiemetics in injectable form, he gave in and called the hospital's pharmacy. He rolled an orange back and forth on the island while he answered the pharmacist's many questions. He'd had House's social security number and insurance identification number memorized for years, never mind address and phone number. The rigmarole of paperwork bored him today.

Though he'd overcome the sharp disappointment he'd felt when House had come home sick, he still wanted a day at home where he did little to nothing productive. That did _not_ include a trip to work.

His mind wandered to the black bag in the closet and the toy inside of it while his groin reminded him he hadn't finished what he'd started earlier in the day. Yes. They'd definitely have to move at some point. He had no private space right now except the bedroom and that was the last place he wanted to put on a one-man show.

He dropped the phone into his pocket and stretched again. Another reason to move: no room for a decent ergonomic chair in front of his computer right now.

Roaming back into the living room, he stopped to put his shoes on and gauge House's hydration status from a distance. No moderate or severe signs showed and because today he was determined to minimize his interference in House's illness, he let his mind drift again. It settled on his bank account as he tied the left shoelace. All of the wives had either remarried or become financially independent; other than high quality food and some new clothes now and then, he spent almost no money. And now that he split the rent on a single room apartment with House, his account was swollen with funds. His investments were sound; he had no debt. The price of a boat he'd picked out flashed in front of him: he could pay cash for it. But, not for the first time, he wondered: did House really want to go fishing?

"Be back soon," he said out of habit, grabbing his keys and rounding the couch. House didn't even grunt.

* * *

Without really knowing why, Wilson shut the door quietly as he entered the apartment. He dropped his keys and rounded the couch to drop the paper bag. House startled awake with a sharp intake of breath. For a moment, alien eyes met Wilson, then he relaxed and sank down into the couch. Wilson heard him sigh gently.

Dropping into his chair, Wilson untied his shoes, slid them off, and arranged them neatly to the side. He watched as House steeled himself and sat up with a heavy groan, pushing the blanket aside.

Once House was settled with two Vicodin in his mouth, nearly doubled over as he had been earlier, Wilson moved the blanket and sat next to him.

Wordlessly, Wilson offered House the vial and a syringe. Let him do it. Let him satisfy himself. Wilson had learned long ago that was the easiest way to deal with House.

House's hands shook as he filled the syringe; Wilson found something else to look at.

The syringe and vial moved in his peripheral vision. Wilson took them, noting that House had drawn a reasonable amount. Not that House could overdose or make himself anything but sleepy with this drug. He didn't like to admit it—he _wouldn't _admit it—but no matter how close they'd gotten recently, he still didn't trust House with narcotics. Not completely.

"Why do you want to go fishing?" House asked, his voice grating as he spoke.

Wilson shook himself. He put the vial down and tore an alcohol packet open. House had already hooked his thumb around his pajama pants to expose his hip. He wasn't looking at Wilson for an answer.

"You used to fish a lot," House continued. "Then you stopped."

Divorces, remarriages, the endless string of difficulties House had faced—each one resonated between them in the moment of silence.

"So why now?"

House was watching him. No, not him. The syringe. His eyes spoke for him: _ you gonna give me that?_

Wilson disinfected a patch of skin and stuck him. House grunted.

"I miss it," Wilson said, counting the seconds while he depressed the plunger. "I thought it would be fun."

"Why ask me?" House asked, hissing when Wilson pressed a cotton ball and withdrew the needle.

"I wanted to do more with you," Wilson answered, gently rubbing House's hip, not thinking about why he'd used the past tense.

"And you thought I'd like fishing?" House asked, batting Wilson's hand away. "It's fine," he mumbled.

House pulled his leg up to lie back down but Wilson didn't move out of his way. Instead, Wilson placed his hands on House's shoulders and dug into the muscle around his spine.

"What're you doing?" House asked, half-turning, genuinely confused.

Wilson merely shrugged in the moment they locked eyes and kept massaging.

"I don't know what you like to do outside of the apartment any more," Wilson said casually. "Fishing's as a good a bet as anything else."

House leaned forward slightly to give Wilson better access to his back. "Fishing, sure," he said. "Makes more sense than hang gliding or bungee jumping or watching paint dry. Why not?"

"You don't have to go," Wilson said lightly, telling himself he would not be hurt if House rescinded his agreement. "I want to go. I want you to go. But you don't have to."

"I'll go," House said equal levity.

He let out a heavy breath, groping with one hand at Wilson's leg behind him and touching the other to his head. One of Wilson's hands met House's while the other held a suddenly heavy shoulder.

"Just kicked in," House mumbled, gripping Wilson and now the couch too for stability. "Move it or lose it."

Wilson shifted from the middle cushion to an end cushion. "Think I'll lose it," he said, simultaneously helping House scoot with him and pulling House down on top of him.

House's questioning grunt arrived a little too late. He was half-lying in Wilson's lap before he could get any words out. "Whatever you've got in mind…"

"Nothing, nothing," Wilson assured him. "It's been a few days, that's all."

Wilson felt him snort and the friction it caused. He shifted slightly.

"That's not nothing," House leered.

A month ago, Wilson might have blushed at the comment. Now he simply shrugged. "I didn't get to finish earlier."

"Poor you," House intoned. He shifted his shoulders like a dog with an itch, then let his head rest on Wilson's chest. "Kind of uncomfortable."

"Oh, shut up," Wilson dismissed. "You'd have me pinned already if you were in my position."

House yawned. "If I were in your position, I would've finished earlier."

"Next time _I'm_ in the bathroom puking my guts out, _you_ try masturbating in here," Wilson griped.

"It's easy," House dismissed sleepily. "Just turn the volume up."

Wilson sniffed. "Thanks in advance for the tender, loving care."

"_I_ should put my sex life on hold for _you_," House mumbled.

"Yes, you should," Wilson said.

House became heavier as he relaxed. Wilson knew he wouldn't be able to sit with House's sleeping upper body on top of him and remain comfortable for very long, but he intended to enjoy the closeness he'd looked forward to since last night. He would stay as long as he could.

House murmured something else unintelligible and fell silent. Through the thin cotton of his t-shirt, Wilson lightly rubbed a thumb back and forth over the tough hollow beneath House's collar bone. He sighed contentedly. The feel and smell of House were sometimes nearly as good as sex, and often more difficult to get. And sometimes when the sex wasn't particularly good, they were better. Long years of tumultuous relationships in combination with antidepressants made him appreciate more the value of quiet togetherness.

Wilson felt House's limbs twitch, the random-fire myoclonic jerks that were the brain's mechanism for checking the body's pulse, and smiled. Feeling House fall asleep near him was a rare event. He stopped his thumb's movement slowly. In this position he could feel House breathe, his heart beat, his muscles relax, even the squishy roiling in his bowel. He smiled a little more.

So what if they went fishing. So what if they moved. So what if House had hidden the hernia from him. So what if he'd been bored all day. So what if he could feel his leg falling asleep already, pinned under House's lower back, and if the pressure on his groin had become uncomfortable. So what if House's body would wake him in ten minutes. But most of all, so what if they went fishing.

He'd learned the take pleasure and comfort in small things. Maybe House never would, but maybe that made them a good pair. And maybe it didn't matter right now when he finally had what he'd wanted all day.

Wilson closed his eyes and breathed out, content with the warm, sleeping man grinding him deeper into the couch. In such dense closeness, so what nothing.

END


End file.
